Miserable morning

Are the customers who come to Costa everyday always so afraid of interaction? A handful of early morning building, maintenance, plumbing, plastering, types engage briefly in puerile banter then head, dusty or paint splattered, to waiting white van - littered with forgotten crisp packets, broken biscuits and mouldy socks - but the other majority look encased in the trap of their paranoia. This morning the paranoia stems from a rain which climbs down from a bright gray coverall of a sky. Whether we like it or not, the weather is simply beyond us! We, who moved away from the open Savannah and migrated into a wetter Northern Europe, queue up for a stimulant to nullify the dull ache of resentment we feel for the lack of control we have for anything in our meaningless existence. Scrambling about breaking, making, melding, tarnishing, wasting and hastening the time when we'll all be one hundred percent crazy one hundred percent of our post-placental time. Oh, why are we doing this willingly? Are we truly "formulated sprawling on a pin" each an every open eyes moment.

Body language Timothy. Angry scowl. So I sat back down to let his seething girth hang over the belt on his plaster dusted pants until he's exited stage left into a rain drenched street (good weather for dicks they say)? Wetherby Market Place on a Friday. It means nothing all this projection on the other people, in this beige bland room, who suffer their own discordance.

Ralph reads the Daily Telegraph because there are no spelling mistake or grammar issues. That's quite anal for a language which is fluid and haphazard at the best of times. He can't read the Guardian because of spelling mistakes. Is that a euphemism for class bigotry? I'm not one hundred percent he is talking in riddles.